Monday, 12 July 2010

Last night we rolled down the dirt road from our house to the local village bar/restaurant, El Pellistre, to watch the world cup final.
The locals were already filling up the porch, draped in flags, wearing their national team shirts.

A TV screen mounted in a corner, above a couple of wine barrels labelled Pedro Romero- local bullfighting hero ...Grabbing a table on the crowded, small veranda, we made our allegiance clear from the start (lest we be mistaken, God forbid, for Dutchies) ...

Some were already letting off fireworks - their optimism high before the match even started.They had put their faith, after all, in Paul the psychic octopus who had already predicted victory for Spain ...

(The inscription reads: El pulpo Paul visita "El Pellistre"!)
Inside was a large room with air conditioning and another TV screen, but the real fun was out on the porch in the still scorching heat. Not only were the boys gathered, young and old ...

but whole extended families, grandparents and children ...

During that whole long match - and boy, was it long, with only near misses and no goals - their enthusiasm never wavered. They chanted, waved their flags and yelled Viva Espana. And guess what they were blasting away on, at every near-triumph or disaster? Vuvuzelas!

And then finally, the goal! From then on it was a blur of joy and noise ...

... helped on by a few supportive tourists ...

and champagne was on the house ...

And how did we feel? Happy for our compadres, but most of all proud to see our country's amazing feat in pulling off a stunning tournament.

Though personally, having idled away a pleasant half-hour this morning ranking the Spanish team on my desktop in order of hot, hotter and hottest, I do feel they could just have given Spain the cup ahead of time, purely on account of the sex appeal of their players. In partial evidence, I give you ...